Truth's Hourglass
by Scholar for Christ
Summary: Set post fall no spoilers . On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John reluctantly agrees to go to a concert with Sarah. A text from Mycroft though suggests the words to one song are not quite what they seem...


**Author's Note: Set after the fall. I haven't seen season 2 yet so there are no spoilers. :P This is meant to be read with the song Skellig by Loreena McKennitt. I changed the lyrics for the story though so don't worry if it's different. [A cookie to whoever knows the book quote John remembers ;) ]**

**Lyrics are bold, memories and texts italicized. Oh, and I own nothing :P**

**Edit: I changed the lyrics in the last stanza... My tired brain decided to rhyme "last" with... "last". It's fixed now. XD**

Truth's Hourglass

John wasn't sure why he'd agreed to go to the concert with Sarah. He hardly felt like doing anything really. It had been three years… three years to the day since Sherlock's fall and still his heart ached painfully at the mere thought of it. The past two years, he'd stayed in the flat on this day. Just sitting, staring into the empty fireplace and remembering. It hurt… hurt so much but for those few moments, he could pretend Sherlock had gone out… that he'd be back eventually. Sarah told him it was unhealthy… and she was right.

He sat through the concert silently, beautiful Mozart and Beethoven pieces, a few Celtic songs as well that he honestly enjoyed. His phone buzzed and he shifted in his seat, pulling the mobile from his pocket and opening the message.

_Pay attention, John. _

_~ Mycroft_

_What is that supposed to mean? To what? _He sent back, irritated by the elder Holmes and plagued by memories that pressed his chest tightly. The audience's applause drowned out his mobile's buzzing.

_Listen well, Doctor. The words are meant for you._

_~ Mycroft_

Confused, John tucked the phone away, fixing his eyes again on the stage and the woman standing in its center. A slow, mournful tune began, violin and flute weaving slowly together like smoke. The players were all wearing long, dark cloaks, adding to the feel of mystery and darkness of the piece.

_**Light the candle, John**_

_**The daylight is almost gone **_

_**The birds have sung their last**_

_**The bells call all to mass**_

John froze, Mycroft's message ringing in his ears. Light the candle…

_John slipped into the sitting room, trying not to look at the remnants of his friend's presence. The books scattered across the desk… the papers… the skull… the pain. He moved to the window, opening the curtains and looking down at the still dark streets. It was near dawn. He could hear bells ringing in the distance, calling the people to an early mass. Taking a match from the box by the sill, he struck one and held it to the wick of a tall white candle. _

"_In memory of Sherlock Holmes…" he whispered as the wick caught and the flame flickered softly in the dark. _

John blinked, mind racing. Mycroft had set this up. Angry tears stung at his eyes but he blinked them back. It was cruel of him, forcing John to be the crux of the politician's own memorial.

_**Seat ye by the fire**_

_**For the night is very long**_

_**There's something I must tell**_

_**For I've been gone too long**_

John's breath caught in his throat, a hidden sob, his hand tightening on Sarah's. She squeezed back, not understanding the depth of the music's effects on her companion.

_**Before our brotherhood **_

_**My books were all to me**_

_**I learned the words of God**_

_**And much of history**_

John frowned. "Learned the words of God….."

"_You're taking on quite the Goliath with this one, Sherlock."_

"_I'm what?" Sherlock turned from the mantle, frowning at John in an almost offended manner._

"_Goliath… the giant. Please tell me you've at least heard of him!" Sherlock's response was the exact opposite of what John had expected. He went silent, looking down at his hand where it rested on the wood above the fireplace, his voice soft and thoughtful._

"_I have learned the words of God…." _

Mycroft hadn't written this… Mycroft hadn't heard what his brother had said that day. These… these were Sherlock's words.

_**Many a year was I**_

_**Perched out upon the sea**_

_**The waves would wash my tears**_

_**The wind my memory **_

Tears? Memory? If John didn't know better, and bitterly so, he would have thought Sherlock was still out there, lost or exiled and plagued by memories just like himself.

_**I'd hear the ocean breathe**_

_**Exhale upon our shore**_

_**I knew the tempest's blood**_

_**His wrath I would endure**_

The tempest…

"_Moriarty!" _

_John jumped as Sherlock slammed his palms on the table with a snarl._

"_What about him?" he'd asked, knowing it was easiest to help Sherlock after he'd vented his frustration._

"_He's not here! He's nowhere- He's like a phantom! No base of operations, no headquarters no nothing!" Sherlock stormed over to the sofa, collapsing onto it dramatically and draping a hand across his face. A few minutes passed before he spoke again. "He's a storm, John… a tempest… just a feel in the air right now but soon…" _

Soon…

_**And so three years went by**_

_**Within my rocky cell**_

_**With only a mouse or a bird**_

_**My friend; I loved them well**_

John's heart was pounding now, a strange fear and hope growing in his chest. A mouse or a bird…

"_Well what do you think then?" _

"_Not a crow, John! They're carrion birds!" _

"_But very intelligent." Sherlock just glowered at him. _

"_They feed on death, John… __**He**__ is a crow." _

"_Fine, fine." John chuckled and deleted Sherlock's animal form from his new blog thread. "What about Molly?" _

"_Mouse," Sherlock waved a hand from his place on the couch, obviously bored but with nothing else to do but indulge John._

"_Mycroft?" Sherlock had to think about that one._

"_A bird. Something fat. A magpie maybe." _

"_Are magpies fat?"_

"_Anything's fat if it eats enough cake…."_

_John laughed._

_**And so I had at last**_

_**Our world made safe and free**_

_**Though many a year it took**_

_**Till I arrived here with thee**_

Here? Sherlock was here? No… he was dead. Sarah was watching him now, her expression concerned. There wasn't much he could do to reassure her. He was sure he looked rather bad by now, shaking and staring at the woman on the stage with a desperation that suggested he'd fall dead if he dared look away. Sarah asked if he would like to leave. He tried to calm his pounding heart and said he was fine. She didn't believe him… neither did he really.

_**On dusty roads I walked**_

_**And over mountains high**_

_**Through rivers running deep  
Beneath the endless sky**_

The violin took up the song and the player stood, striding out of the orchestra and toward the woman on the stage. His movements were graceful, the bow sliding across the strings, coaxing the lilting tune out into the air to twist and weave and… he seemed so familiar… so impossibly familiar. The man turned his head ever so slightly and John shivered as the shadowed eyes seemed to stop on him.

_**Beneath the jasmine flowers**_

_**Amidst the cypress trees**_

_**I give you now my books **_

_**And all their mysteries **_

Jasmine flowers… cypress trees…

"_Sherlock why are there china plates on the bookshelf?"_

"_They're jasmine."_

"_What?"_

"_The flowers. They're jasmine. Rather lovely, don't you think?" _

John was shaking in earnest now, deaf to Sarah's whispered queries. The plates had been on the top shelf… just below them were two bookends that held Sherlock's journals… two bookends upon which were carved trees. Cypress trees.

_**I took Truth's hourglass**_

_**And turned it on its head**_

_**And when the sands were still**_

_**Twas then you found me dead**_

A choked sob escaped John's lips and he felt Sara's hand on his shoulder. Truth turned on its head. It reminded John a quote that had stayed with him from his childhood: "When a willing victim who has committed no treachery is killed in a traitor's stead, the stone table will crack, and even death itself would turn backwards." A lie… an illusion. Everything backwards and upside down. Life was death and death… life.

_**O' leave the candle, John**_

_**The daylight is almost come**_

_**The tempest storm has passed**_

The violinist stepped forward, standing beside the woman and lowering his hood.

_**My friend, I'm home at last.**_

… Sherlock….


End file.
